


Shame

by Feers_Quelled



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ichabbie Forever, This looks like an IchKatrina fic, it's not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8420185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feers_Quelled/pseuds/Feers_Quelled
Summary: Ichabod Crane begins a practice to help him cope with his new surroundings. One-shot (but could easily be more if y'all don't hate it). Un-beta'ed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Fic. Please give constructive criticism if you're going to comment! For Ichabbie Holloween.

Ichabod, like many of his classmates, had stealthily engaged in the practice since adolescence. First gently and out of curiosity in his changing body, then later to quench the heat of lust in the days prior to his marriage to Katrina. In truth, taking himself in hand always made him feel puerile, as if shackles of decorum bear no contest to his members’ bestial desires. However, in his lonely new world, this brutish and primal act evolved to necessity. Thus Ichabod Crane commences stroking himself in the night. 

Naturally, he imagines his lovely wife. Katrina, who possessed a body soft and pale and forever enthusiastic to his caress. She welcomed their lovemaking eagerly and Ichabod remembers the months after his nuptials where he found his greatest joys in her sighs as she opened to him for amorous congress. These reflections of her bring him to satisfying climax quickly and forcefully. However, in sour moments, Ichabod is encouraged by frustration to grasp himself. Often it is when he recalls that Katrina languishes elsewhere in the cosmic plane, and that without means of receiving his comfort. It is in these occasions that he rubs himself until his skin is over-sensitized and he aches for release. His strained libido encourages his eidetic memory to search of imaginations that will push him over the cliff. 

It begins simply enough. The bursting expression of carnal need preceded by visions of Miss Mills. He finds he simply considers the swell of her chest in her fitted chemise and the darkness in the crevasse between her breasts. The tapering elegance of her throat and smooth alto of her voice. Her femininity and strength contained in a package so tidy and compact. Perfect. Yet whilst his breathing slows and his pupils again constrict to a resting diameter, he ashamedly recollects the conjured images and mourns his propriety. The shame that pinks his cheeks afterwards persists longer than the exhilarating release found in his action. 

Bright, straight-laced Ichabod understands that this craving stems from his desire for sensual experience of his wife rather than echoed cryptic phrases in the night. He rationalizes that his fantasizing occurs when his nightmares play too vividly and his vexation too deep. However upon consideration he discovers that his habit has become quite frequent over the past year. More heaving chests recovering from the image of her smile; more reveling in the plush of her pursed lips and strength of her hand when she grasps his. There is a niggling in his mind suggesting his visions result from attraction to Miss Mills, but how can this be when he misses his wife so? 

How cruel a shock when he truly ponders that he has thought of his wife in his erotic moments none at all over the passing fortnight. Then the humiliating realization that his most recent vision was not of his wife sweetly whispering his name in his ear as he brought himself to orgasm, but of Miss Mills writhing beneath him. It was her hair splayed out on the pillow, her bronzed skin glowing in the darkened room, her mouth a perfect circle as he spurned her release. And granted him the most satisfying orgasm of his reanimated life.  


This crisis of conscience worsens in the evenings after his separation from the Horseman, when her proximity and wit evokes the memory of her warm body in his arms before his potential death. If she has any indication of his sordid midnight thoughts, the Lieutenant gives no clue. She goads him and protects him in equal measure and their innate trust of each other strengthens. His discernibly platonic love for her grows.  


Then without warning, his fantasies begin to assault him in the light of day.


	2. Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you guys gave me such incredible feedback that I'm posting another chapter. Again, tell me if you hate it and if I should stop while I'm ahead (j/k but not j/k lol). From Abbie's POV. Again w/o a beta.

Lieutenant Grace Abigail Mills awakes in the darkness, breathing heavily and feeling a little panicked. The racing pulse in her throat patters similarly to her encounter with the Faceless Nightmare Monster Whom Shall Not Be Named, but this thudding of her heart is due to another animal. She rubs her hand down her face and pinches her lips before squinting at her clock on the bedside table. It glows 6:30am, which is far too late for her to return to sleep but a mite too early for her to feel obligated to remove herself from the comfy confines of her bed. She sighs deeply and frowns, thinking of the dream that woke her so abruptly.

The dream opened with she and Ichabod in the Archives searching for answers as standard. In this case, it pertained to a demon who toys with the emotions of loved ones, turning brother against brother. In the dream, Ichabod quickly uncovered that the answer to overcoming the demon was to bind it in a circle of salt while the demon-destroyer and their most beloved recited an incantation. While in each other’s embrace. Ichabod had turned to her and articulated some version of, “Lieutenant. Sweet Abbie. Are you not my most beloved?” She remembers being so overwhelmed by the sentiment that she did not register his movements until his lips were on hers. When she did not pull away, he rumbled a laugh and murmured, “I see that I am yours as well.”

That scene morphed into the cabin, where they gasped and panted before a crackling fire. She rising above him and undulating as if the fate of the world depended on it. Ichabod meeting her gaze blissfully, pupils blown wide and body reddened by the heat of her body more than the fire. In the corner of her eye, a very irritated demon crouched, surrounded by salt and slowly, painfully being disintegrated by the power of their lovemaking. At last their combined orgasm emanated scintillating light from their loins and obliterated the demon in full, relegating him once again to the pits of hell. The orgasm it generated ripped her from sleep and left her winded, horny, and anxious.

_Are my panties soaked through?!_ She groans, rubbing her thighs together to determine that she did indeed have a wet dream. She chuckles derisively. This has been the third time in the span of a week that she’s been hounded by sexual nightmares involving her partner. However, ‘nightmares’ does not feel like the appropriate word. Has she ever before been accosted by nightmares where her closest friend fellates her so intensely and lovingly she’s convinced he’s in her bed when she awakens? And yet the word ‘fantasy’ seems no more appropriate. Abigail may have been the quintessential Bad Teen for a while, but she never desired another woman’s husband.

Abbie wants to share her experiences with Ichabod to determine if there is indeed some demonic force causing these visions in her time of rest. But how would she broach this? _Oh hey Crane, what ya doing? Cool… cool. Hey by the way you’ve been fucking me in my dreams and my body won’t calm the hell down and I think about jumping you from time to time but can you make it stop? Because the only reason I wanna suck your soul out through your dick has to be because of a demon or some shit, right?_

Abbie hops out of bed and grabs her robe before heading to her bathroom for the coldest possible shower.


End file.
